


Gone a Little from Land

by rosefox



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Dream Sex, F/M, Immram, Islands, Kissing, Ocean Voyage, Pining, Post-Voyage of the Dawn Treader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9645983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/pseuds/rosefox
Summary: That night, Lucy dreamed, as she did so often, of Caspian and the sea.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_la_grecque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_la_grecque/gifts).



> In this post– _Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ setting, Lucy is an 18-year-old university student and Caspian is his _Dawn Treader_ book age of 17. Therefore I didn't tag the story as containing underage sex, but figured I'd give a warning here for anyone who still thinks of Lucy as a little kid and several years younger than Caspian. The sex is not explicit, but it does happen.

Lucy raced down the corridor, embarrassed that after a full week at Carleton she hadn't yet learned her way around the campus. She had no idea what she was doing here. There was so much to remember, and sometimes she thought everyone was speaking another language. Her mind kept drifting, even though she knew she ought to pay attention. She’d been an excellent student _before_. But ever _since_ , she’d struggled to concentrate. Father had taken her to a kindly doctor who’d looked in her eyes and hemmed and hawed and prescribed some sort of medicine. She’d forgotten to fill the prescription. If she’d remembered, she’d probably have forgotten to take it. Sometimes she was surprised she’d remembered to come to America, even after all the work she’d put in to find a university as far as she could get from home and from the ocean.

She found the classroom for her Irish literature course and dropped into a seat just as Professor Benedetto tapped for attention. “Good afternoon,” she said cheerfully, as though she really did mean for them to have a good afternoon. “Did you all get a chance to purchase your books?” There was a general murmur of assent. “Excellent. Those who haven’t, please do; you'll get your first reading assignment today, and September’s no time to fall behind. As noted on the syllabus—you did all read the syllabus, right?—our first unit is on medieval Irish narratives of sea voyages. Does anyone know the term for them?” A few hands went up. “In the back, and state your name, please.”

“Cathy Caldwell,” the tall brunette said. “They’re called immrama.”

“That’s right.” She wrote _immram_ on the chalkboard. “Though your pronunciation is very American.” Beneath _immram_ she added _iomramh_. “The Irish say—” and she uttered something like “oom-row” that Lucy was sure she’d misheard, since it didn’t sound anything like either word on the board. “However, you won’t be graded on your pronunciation of Irish, since the Irish themselves are never quite sure how to manage it.”

The class obligingly tittered.

“The first immram we’ll be reading and discussing is _The Voyage of Mael Dúin’s Coracle_.” She wrote it on the board. (Lucy had written “Muldoon” in her notebook; she crossed it out and wrote “Mael Dúin.”) “Does anyone know what a coracle is?”

Lucy raised her hand, surprising herself. “Yes, in the white cardigan, and state your name.”

“Lucy Pevensie. It’s a boat. A little boat that you row.” She could still see Reepicheep in his coracle, with the strange and beautiful light in his eyes from the sweet water at the end of the world.

“Yes, though Mael Dúin’s coracle was large enough for him and several others. _Immram_ comes from the Irish verb that means ‘to row.’” She returned to the lectern. “Mael Dúin and his companions voyaged for nearly four years and saw some pretty strange things. I like teaching this book to freshmen because you also have four-year journeys ahead of you, and those years may hold many wonders and many dangers. By the end of the semester you'll all have written your own immrama, maps for where you hope and fear to go as well as reflections of where you've been.”

The professor picked up a small book. “I know I didn’t ask you to bring books to class today, but I want to read a bit of this to you now even though you can’t follow along. Please close your eyes and listen.”

Lucy closed her eyes. She heard the quiet rustle of students shifting in their seats, the flipping of pages, and then Professor Benedetto’s voice, suddenly more sonorous, speaking not in English but in some language that sounded as though it were made of rough stones polished smooth by the surf.

“ _Tri bliadna agus secht mis iss ed boí for merogod issind ócian._ Three years and seven months was it wandering in the ocean...”

That night, Lucy read _The Voyage of Mael Dúin’s Coracle_ until she fell asleep. And she dreamed, as she did so often, of Caspian and the sea.

* * * * *

_The Island of Tame Birds_

She stood on the deck of the _Dawn Treader_. It was the same and not the same; in the way of dreams, she was her dreaming self, just turned 18 and improbably wearing her favorite blue skirt and white cardigan along with her Narnian shipboard sandals, but no one seemed to notice that a tall, shy university student had replaced chatty 10-year-old Lucy.

They were drifting slowly past a hilly island covered with trees. At first they’d thought it uninhabited, but then some noise of the ship traveled across the water and a thousand birds exploded out of the treetops, circling and calling to one another with voices like choristers singing hymns. Gradually they settled back down and became invisible again, their feathers as green as the leaves they nested in.

“I don’t trust it,” Drinian said.

“I don’t either,” Caspian said, “but wouldn’t it be nice to have something other than fish for dinner?”

“I will go!” declared Reepicheep. “And come back with a brace of those emerald pigeons skewered upon my blade—you may depend upon it, your Majesties!”

Five of them went, in the end: Caspian, Drinian, Lucy, Reepicheep, and Eustace, who was loudly of the opinion that a varied diet would save them all from scurvy. Drinian had a look in his eye that suggested Eustace would soon find himself on feather-plucking duty.

In the dimness under the trees, Lucy and Caspian became separated from the others. They made their way into a little valley where shafts of sunlight eddied down through the trees. One ray glinted on Caspian’s golden hair, and Lucy couldn’t resist reaching out to touch it. He turned to face her, and looked so solemn that she asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Only... we’re alone.”

“We are,” she said. They were standing very close to each other, and nearly of a height. She stared into his eyes. She'd never noticed that they were the blue-green of seawater in the shallows. “I don’t mind. I’ve never gotten to be alone with you.”

“Lucy,” he said, and then he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips tasted of brine and his hair was like water running through her fingers. The ocean, she was kissing the ocean.

* * * * *

_The Island of the Fort_

The enormous grey stone fort seemed almost too large for the island it was on; there was only the narrowest strip of land where they could beach the rowboat. Lucy and Caspian set their hands to the great iron ring in the great barred wooden door and pulled together until it opened.

Identical white houses had been built right up against the stone walls. They went into the first house and found it furnished but empty except for a marmalade cat that was amusing itself by jumping from one chair to another around the dining table.

“May we come in?” Lucy asked the cat. It seemed very important that she get an answer, but the cat ignored her, as cats will.

The walls were festooned with riches: necklaces woven from strands of gold, fierce-looking swords, rings hung carefully on pegs as though for sale. Caspian gave them only a glance before drawing Lucy over to a pile of quilts. She hesitated and looked at the cat again. “Would you mind?” she asked. “It _is_ your house.”

The cat leaped up on the table and stared at them for a long moment. Then it ostentatiously turned its back, flicking its tail once in dismissal. _You humans will do your undignified human things_ , it seemed to say. _I may judge you, but I can’t stop you._

They were very undignified indeed. Afterwards, while Lucy was lacing up her sandals, Caspian gave the cat an apologetic pat. The cat rolled onto its back and batted at his hand; he hurriedly pulled away before it could scratch. “You’re certainly not a _tame_ cat, are you,” he muttered.

Lucy looked over her shoulder all the way back to the boat, wondering and hoping. But if the cat was anything other than a cat, she saw no sign.

* * * * *

_The Island of Red Berries_

Reepicheep, fearless as ever, seized a berry with both paws—it was nearly as large as his pointed nose—and took a bite. “Delicious!” he declared. Within two minutes he was sound asleep, his fur matted and sticky from the juice.

They watched over him and fretted until he awoke several hours later. “What a refreshing nap,” he said with a yawn. “I feel superbly well. Dear friends, you could do yourselves no greater favor than tasting of this splendid fruit and enjoying the slumber it grants.”

None of the landlubbers slept terribly well in the shipboard hammocks, so this idea was met with general acclaim. Even Eustace agreed to give the fruit a try. The berry bushes ringed a field of green wheat that made a fine place to set up camp. When night fell, everyone eagerly partook of the berries—except for Caspian, who said he’d take first watch, and Lucy, who hid hers in her sleeve. Soon they were surrounded by slumbering bodies.

Lucy and Caspian tiptoed across the field until the snores faded in the distance. They shed their clothes and she pulled him down among the wheat and rolled atop him, covering his wiry body with hers, drinking in his mouth. The sharp tang of the crushed stalks mingled with the scent of berry juice. She felt dizzy with joy.

“My Lucy,” he murmured against her, “my best Lu.” The grain rustled and swayed around them in a breeze that raised goosebumps on her bare skin; she shivered and rocked herself against him, slick and wet where he was velvet-hard, and warmth began to spread through her. Caspian’s hands roamed her as though she were another island for him to explore. When she rose up and lowered herself to join with him, she saw sparks like will-o'-the-wisps, dancing off into the dark.

Later, their hunger sated, they crept back to the campsite. Lucy lay down next to Edmund as though she’d been there all along. Caspian woke a groggy Drinian for the second watch and curled up in the warm place he’d left. Quietly, Lucy nibbled on a berry, feeling its sweet-tart juice numb her tongue. Sleep, like Caspian, filled her from the inside out.

* * * * *

She awoke in her dorm room, stretched full-length on her narrow, creaky bed. Her battered used copy of _The Voyage of Mael Dúin’s Coracle_ was next to her pillow. She felt more rested and relaxed than she had since coming to America. Or, to be honest, since coming back from Narnia.

There, she’d let herself think the word. It felt a little safer today, as though Narnia were a little less far away than it had been.

Feeling a bit silly, she looked around for a stray stalk of wheat or drop of berry juice or a bit of orange cat fur, something to show that it had been more than a dream. But of course a dream was all it was. Caspian was married to Ramandu's daughter and Lucy was a freshman at Carleton, an awkward adolescent all over again.

She brushed her fingers gently across the book’s cover. Remembering what it was like to be a queen helped her feel a bit less awkward. Maybe the next four years wouldn’t be so hard after all.

**Author's Note:**

> C.S. Lewis was Irish, and _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ is very much in the tradition of the classic immrama. I was thrilled to have this opportunity to explicitly tie them together. Thanks for your wonderful post- _Dawn Treader_ prompt.
> 
> If you'd like to read _The Voyage of Mael Dúin's Coracle_ , you can find it [in this scan of Whitley Stokes's translation, with the original text on facing pages](http://archive.org/stream/revueceltique09pari#page/452/mode/2up), or [here in HTML format](http://sejh.pagesperso-orange.fr/keltia/immrama/maeldun_en.html).
> 
> Big thanks to framlingem for the beta!


End file.
